Brian and Curt and the Elephant in the Room
by Velvetbabe
Summary: Brian and Curt on the road, in their hotel room, and otherwise. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

It's terribly ironic. Curt is pouty, if not bratty, while I'm too bloody horny to see straight. Not that that is anything unusual for me, however as much of a sex fiend as I normally am, compared to Curt I'm finding on this tour that I'm a frigging nun, or Mary Poppins, or _something_.

_Usually_. Today … he's sullen. Sick. Or homesick, depending on who asks. However all I see is _pout_, and it's doing nothing at all to quell my appetite.

"Come _on_, let's _fuck_. It'll make you feel better".

I'm saying it right out loud in front of three dozen fans, as I completely ignore them while signing autographs. He finds the former hilarious, while the latter annoys him no end.

"It's like you're dismissing them or something," he told me when he first witnessed this, way back at the start of the tour. "If I had people absolutely desperate for me to sign a little fucking piece of paper I'd at least look them in the face and maybe show some gratitude or _something_. _Talk_ to them. Say one fucking _word_."

I don't bother with my usual pat responses, ("Believe me, you don't wanna look these people in the face", or "Just what exactly do _I_ owe _them_? Of _course_ they bought my album, of _course_ they came to the show- I'm the biggest thing since sliced Beatles,") because today, he doesn't care either way and so I amuse myself, blathering on right in front of them, ("Well, at least let me _blow_ you,"), and continuing something I've been doing all day, comparing our sexual histories. ("You're telling me you've never been with five guys?") All of which he ignores. He's tired, he says. Listless. He just wants to get to the fucking room.

* * *

><p>Inside he's immediately on the tv, pounding it with his fists, cursing the "lousy goddam backwards half assed motherfucking <em>lame<em>-ass British tv."

"_Telly_", I call from the loo, unable to help myself.

"I don't care what you queens call it! The fucking _Tigers_ are in the motherfucking _playoffs_ and they aren't even showing it!"

I enter the room, squinting.

"The what? The _who_?"

He looks at me, ready to bite my head off.

"The Tigers. The _Detroit_ _Tigers_."

I burst out laughing.

"Oh my god. So _that's_ what all this is about!? You'd rather watch bloody _hockey_ than fuck me?"

"Baseball!" he bellows.

I laugh again.

"_Curt_, you _tosser_, since when are you into _sports_?! Those are the people who beat you up in primary school! Me, as well!"

He sighs in exasperation and backs up to plop down rather awkwardly into a chair, then sits there pouting.

"Well?"

He snaps.

"I'm _homesick_, okay? At least if I can see a game, I can see maybe see the skyline behind it. _Some_ sorta connection to home."

We're into the twelfth straight week of the tour and the constant movement, the constant daily change in faces and skylines and fashions and food and smells and dialects are pretty much old hat to me. I've become utterly blasé about it all, this being my 3rd world tour. Every face now to me is pretty much a dollar sign, and/or a potential fuck, and/or another sucker who purchased one of the hundreds of my fiercely overpriced t-shirts that sell out each night.

So to have Curt and his band along for the tour has been fantastic. Total shot in the arm. What's not to love? In addition to having him ever-available to me sexually, it's been a blast just being around him, witnessing the mayhem he and his bandmates get up to. Not to mention of course, the nightly vision that is Curt as human pogo stick – the manic energy, the crazed, semi-dangerous, somewhat frightening and disturbing sight of a shirtless, sometimes trouser-less being pitching himself about without any care for his own safety. The lad cuts himself open and pours out of the contents of his innards and it can't help but grab you by the throat ... and the balls.

So again, what's not to love?

Okay … well ...

Try being reminded, on a daily basis, of such things as ... credibility ... integrity ... of raw, genuine _talent ..._ not to mention things as normal and human, as admittedly _admirable, _even_, _as a desire for ...

_home._

* * *

><p>I've, it feels, so long now stopped caring about such human mundanities - or at least blocked them from my brain. So long I've cynically embraced and even celebrated my disconnection from all things home-y, from any semblance of 'normalcy'. I'm special, I figure. Even among the special people. I'm a <em>rock star<em>, for fuck's sake. A _God, _as many people see me. And isn't that what we do? Us Gods? Isn't that who we are? Kings and Lords, exempt from such petty human failings ... correct?

And so, hasn't it proven a mistake, then, a giant, perhaps even fatal one, to have invited him on tour? Because ... worst and most alarming of all as I gaze upon this thorough and utter mess of a man, this ragged beauty with an endless ocean in his eyes, I am reminded, to my horror, yet again, that I'm doing something Brian Slade simply doesn't do.

Bloody well falling in love.

* * *

><p>For the hundredth time I turn away from him, from <em>it<em>, this feeling, this intolerable swelling of the heart, and dip right back into the well of what Brian Slade draws from.

"So you didn't answer my question," I call again from the loo.

"What question?"

"Have you ever done it with five guys."

He groans.

"Brian, haven't these little quizzes proven to you by now that you're way, way ahead of me in the perversion stakes?"

"So I take that as a no."

"That would be correct."

"How many, then?"

"How many _what_?" he snaps.

"How many people have you done it with at once, you dolt?"

He takes a long, deep breath, which is followed by a lengthy pause. I can't tell if he's ignoring me, or trying to count.

"Two."

"Two what?"

"Two girls."

"Well that's pretty pedestrian."

"Whatever," he groans.

"Have you ever thought about two guys?"

"Brian, I ... I don't know. I guess I take what comes my way. Whatever I'm in the mood for. I'm not _always_ in the mood, you know."

"Oh no?" I ask wryly, exiting the loo and holding something behind my back.

"Besides," he continues, "now that I think of it … I guess I don't really get the logistics of three cocks. How that would work."

"Six holes," I offer cheerfully.

He shrugs.

"Ya, but two girls have six holes, too, if ya think about it."

Which I'd rather not, thank you. Instead I swallow the surge of jealousy, and approach, whispering.

"Pity it's just you and me in this room, then."

He raises a hand and waves softly, mumbling.

"Brian, I'm just not …"

I ignore him, incensed at the very first "I've got a headache" that's _ever_ been directed at me.

"_Three_ blokes. Now there's a treat. Wanna know why, logistically speaking?"

He sighs.

"Not really–"

"–_Because_ with _three_ blokes you can be the meat in the human sandwich."

He squints.

"The bloke _in between, _Curt. And let me assure you, there is _no_ finer sensation in this world."

His face is blank.

"Okay," he says, flatly.

I whisper and move closer.

"Trust me. When one is simultaneously fucking _and fucked_, or better yet, fucked _and_ _sucked_, it rips your bloody head off … _virgin boy_."

He shrugs, maddeningly disinterested.

"Okay. Whatever. Maybe some day–"

I nod.

"–Yes. _Tonite_."

He looks round from his chair.

"You got a boy hidden away somewhere?"

I drop myself in front of him …

"We don't need a boy."

… and bring my hand round from behind.

"Not when we've got _this_."

He recoils from the giant purple dildo in my hand.

"What the fuck is _that_?"

I grin, and lean forward into his neck.

"A little bit of magic."

"Jesus Christ, where's it _been _though?"

I lean back, annoyed.

"Stop spoiling my fun. It's brand new, it's never been inside another soul, and I'm absolutely dying to try it on you, or rather, _in_ you."

"In _me _?" He shrieks.

I smile.

"Yes, Curt."

"Brian, from what I recall, you already _got_ a cock."

I lean in again, and lower my voice for effect, lips making contact with his jaw.

"But I can't fuck you ... and _suck_ you ... at the same time, now can I?"

I kiss down his neck.

"I'm very, very talented, you will admit, but I can't do _that_."

He fidgets.

"Plus, I mean", I continue. "You _claim_ you're interested in expanding your sexual repertoire."

He shifts slightly as I nibble on his collar bone and speaks distractedly.

"Ya, but … you could just use … y'know, your _fingers_."

"Mmm, fingers are such nice things, but they can't … (kiss, nibble)_ … fuck your hole_ … (nibble, kiss) … like _this _can."

"Brian, I just … I just don't feel ... I'm exhausted," he says. Pause. _Long_ pause, during which I go on nibbling, and drop my hand to cup and caress his crotch. "Besides … how would it even work?"

_Bingo._

"Don't you worry your pretty head. Leave _all_ the fussy details to me. You won't even have to leave this chair."

"But–"

"_Shhh_."

I lean up and press my lips into his. He doesn't respond … much, until I slide down his zipper and reach inward.

I grin into his mouth.

"I thought you weren't in the mood."

A hand grabs the back of my head.

_"Shut up."_

Our mouthes tangle and mash, tongues darting, seeking, finding, before I lower my face and _plunge_ him into the warm, the wet … the _deep_.

"_Mmhh_."

My favorite sound this side of the universe.

I release him and hurriedly go for his boots, then the bottoms of his trousers, tugging so hard that with lifted hips they - and I - nearly fly across the room.

Next, a finger hooks into the collar of his Tshirt.

He hesitates a moment …

"What, I have to be _completely_ naked for this to work?"

… before going to yank it up from the back.

"You're such an unbelievably whiny brat today," I say, ripping the material from his body.

"I'm _homesick, __Brian_."

"Ya, ya, homesick …" I snort, "or is it just _sick_?"

"_Both, _a bit, I think," he answers morosely.

He doesn't get it – that the 'sick' I referenced wasn't the physical kind, poking at his reputation as a nutcase.

No matter, the creeping maternal instincts immediately kick in.

_He would've told me if he was actually sick, right? Has that been the reason for his mood all day? That he's genuinely unwell? Which would be completely understandable considering the massive stresses of the tour, the lack of a single decent night's sleep ever, the intense media spotlight … And here I've been such an arsehole to him!_

Brian Slade, however, rushes to the rescue ...

"Ya?" I force a smirk. "Well, for either, I know the _perfect_ antidote."

I dive hard on a nipple, chewing and roughly dragging it outward from his body between tightly clenched teeth, eliciting an immediate yelp of pain.

_"Ow! _That_ hurt!"_

_"It did", _I grin, brazenly pinching and twisting the other between thumb and forefinger.

His eyes widen and he pushes both palms against my chest - he's as genuinely angry as he is turned on - hissing _"you sexy bitch"_ in my face as he grabs it and pushes me towards the floor ...

In response I push back, laying a hand in the center of his beautiful naked chest, pinning him deep into the chair, waving the dildo around threateningly.

_"This is going in you, boy."_

His head shakes. His eyes plead.

_"No," _he pants.

It's a game we engage in of late. Normally a ferocious top, Curt has discovered that he likes to play the reluctant virgin/bottom, resisting to the last, only to be 'forced' by the cruel top, which is both ridiculous, considering the usual degree of his sexual appetite, and strange, considering that I am most assuredly the _queen_ between the two of us. And who wants to be dominated by a faggy queen?

_"That's exactly what makes it hot," _he's said,_ "the role reversal. The boy in makeup flipping things around and ruling your ass."_

I stand and lean over him.

"You saying 'no' to me, Curt Wild?"

He blinks those enormous eyes, nervously biting his lip.

__"It's huge."__

I look down at it admiringly.

"Yes. It is. And it might even hurt a bit, making it's way up that tight, pretty pink hole of yours ..."

I raise my eyes to his, which pool with lust, clearly relishing the notion, or at least our filthy discussion of it.

_"But that's what you get for being such a pouty little fuck-hungry brat all day, don't you?"_

He blinks. He gulps.

I lean into his face and reach down to begin slow pumping of his fattened cock.

_"Is that what you want? A big hard dick ripping open your tight virgin ass?"_

He pants. His eyes drop shut.

_"Is that what's making you hard right now, you fucking___ cock whore …?___"_

His tongue snakes out to wet his lips.

_"_Mmh …" __he mutters.

I grab him by the hair and throw my lips at him in mad, messy kiss as I push against the bottoms of his feet, spreading his knees and planting them on either end of the wide open chair. It is a sight for the ages: Curt Wild, pinned, flustered, naked, and hard. I lean in to gnash on those gorgeous pink nipples and then throw my mouth down over the hardness as he slithers and mutters and curses my name, the sound of which, could, I swear, make a dead man come.

At this very moment, maddeningly ... _there is a knock on the door._

Curt practically catapults out of the chair.

"_Brian?"_ Jerry calls.

I do the one singularly most unnatural thing_ in this entire world: _drop Curt Wild's cock from my mouth.

"_NO!" _I shout, spitting mad. "Get the _FUCK AWAY FROM THAT DOOR!"_

"Brian, I need to speak with Curt," he says, nonchalant, all business.

"_And **I** am about to FUCK HIS ASS!" _I shriek at top volume, _"and so HELP ME GOD, if you don't GET AWAY FROM THAT DOOR RIGHT THIS INSTANT, I will participate, IMMEDIATELY AFTERWARDS, in the GANG BANGING OF YOURS! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME JERRY?!"_

"_Yes, Christ!" _he mutters, and storms off.

Despite himself, Curt chuckles.

Angry, genuinely _fuming_ now at the interruption, I pour that fury into Curt, ordering him to push that round, supple bottom towards me. I want to ram the dildo home right this instant, but can't – not yet - it would kill him. We do enjoy a bit of _talk_ and teasing pain play on occasion, just to get the juices flowing, but I'm no sadist.

_"More," _I order him, as his eyes fly open. _"Now!", _I bark, gesturing to the edge of the chair.

No longer in control of himself, he surrenders those achingly shapely plump cheeks, sliding them further forward.

_Oh God. That perfect, pouty mouth – the ready and eager ingester of so much drink, drug, pussy and cock as to put your average rock star – even ___me___ - to shame; the spewer of the vile-est of vocabularies; as well as, each night on stage, an absolutely inexplicably gorgeous singing voice … Here before me, hung part way open, transfixed, yes, with arousal, with rough talk and forceful images, but also somehow inexplicably … with innocence, with a beauty I don't right now think I've ever witnessed._

I shake myself out of it – out of the leanings of my near-to-gushing heart … and lube up my new best purple friend, eying Curt with my heaviest, sultriest, most well practiced lids. I am, at this, as well as other things, quite the seasoned performer.

What is this, though ... ? How can it be ...? That he, who finds himself naked, cornered, vulnerable, _coaxed_, with the certain knowledge that he is about to be royally, mercilessly fucked … how can look back at me with such unmitigated sincerity? Boyishness? Such a ridiculously sweet, open, entirely performance- free face, at once, jittery, flustered, and wildly turned on, and yet, tentative, and nervous, shy, even?

_I'm a mess_, it says. Unwell and unstable. Far from home and lost in this world to begin with ... _but I'm here._ In your hands. This life, all of this, is new, and weird for me, uncomfortable some of it, a bit scary ... _but I trust you._

My heart, thudding to this point with sheer animal lust, instantly bursts open.

From my mouth, it comes. No stopping it.

_"Oh, God. I love you"._

* * *

><p>Brian Slade is instantly on me.<p>

_Oh shit. Oh SHIT! Run! Hide! Pray he didn't hear that!_

Curt, eyes shut, panting with the buildup, with intensive erotic anticipation, half mutters.

_"_Wh-wha?"__

Horrified, I gulp … __"Nothing,"__ and poke him with a lathered finger or two, which shuts him up quick.

_"_Ya want my big dick?" __I hiss quickly, saved by the aroused male brain's notorious susceptibility to blunt, stupid language.

"Y-yes," he whispers weakly.

"Good," I say, toying with and poking his prostate. _"Then shut the fuck up and take it,"_ I whisper, and lean down to swallow his.

His head shoots back. He squirms and mutters. I slide in a third digit followed shortly by the carefully introduced dildo as he white knuckles both arms of the chair.

_"_Fuck … fuck … oh FUCK ..." __he gasps, struggling to accommodate the oversized object.

Genuinely not wanting to hurt him, (though it's not like he couldn't stop me any time he wanted), I whisper.

"This okay?"

_"_Yes!"__ he hisses.

I stifle a giggle and re-bury my mouth in his lap.

* * *

><p>For all my effort, for all the elaborate buildup and dirty talk ... he doesn't much last. The sheer girth and thrust of the rapidly moving object combined with exquisitely deep, tasty, expert (if I do say so myself) deep-throat action ... and the naked breathless sweating writhing flailing cursing man in the chair positively explodes round about minute two, calling out at a volume reverberating all over the hotel.<p>

* * *

><p>So crazy-turned on by the whole scene, I dislodge the purple and toss it the floor, and without further ado, climb aboard and proceed to fuck the living Christ out of him as he raises his hips and thrusts up, fucking me back, the two of us grunting and cursing in the other's face as the chair hurtles and stutters and bangs violently into the wall behind, until, just moments along, I explode, myself.<p>

* * *

><p>The room is suddenly quiet except for our labored breaths and weary kisses. The sex, once again, spectacular.<p>

I look. Oh god. _That face._ That unspeakably beautiful post-orgasm glow.

"That was ..." he says, turning his head slowly side to side. _"Wow."_

We laugh. We kiss. We stumble towards and fall back onto the bed, contemplating the ceiling.

Goddammit. Once again – as has been the case each of the last few dozen times - there is absolutely no hiding from, and no mistaking it: the super intense sparkling crackling energy rocketing back and forth between us, the overwhelming feeling of … what is it?

__Love___. _

__Coupledom___. _

We're a pair, it says. A genuine match.

* * *

><p>I'm so sick of it – so bloody sick of pretending what is there, what is screaming in both of our faces ... <em>isn't<em>. I want to blurt it to him, to shout in his face about the massive elephant in the room, in our bed – to, at the very least, relieve the buildup of pressure before my head explodes.

The minutes pass. I, we, instead ... say nothing.

It feels as if the elephant is sitting on my chest, now, impeding my breathing …

Finally, I give in, succumbing to the usual cliché fears _(if he knew how I felt, it would drive him away, etc.)_ and shut my eyes.

Seconds before drifting off ... I feel a sensation.

Which turns out to be ... his hand, snaking across the sheet ... to mine.

* * *

><p>My eyes pop open.<p>

_Wow_.

Okay.

We've never done this. It's not really something we _do_ - affection. We are each too cynical, and ultimately, maybe too chickenshit, or is it shy? I'm certainly too shy to turn my head right now and look at him. I don't want to embarrass him or call attention to what he's done. It's nice, it's amazing, just to lay here, fingers entwined. Much as I'd like it to, it doesn't have to _mean_ anything, though ...and he very well might not __mean __anything by it.

_Right?_

So leave it alone, arsehole.

* * *

><p>I can't possibly sleep, though, now that's he's gone and done it. No chance. And so I lay here pondering the whole sorry situation ...<p>

Perhaps what he and I have been doing these last several weeks, I realize, is following a bit of a script. The one that says we are okay to fuck and bang and blow – indeed, it's certainly what is expected of us ... _aaaand_ it's not like we haven't enjoyed every moment, truth be told. But the script maybe also says we shouldn't do too much beyond this, that we are merely temporary friends and coworkers, after all, that we shouldn't, for example, do the types of things we've been doing ...

Talking for seven straight hours, for example, like we did the other day. Pouring over stacks of old records, placing the headphones over the other's ears and sharing favorite lyrics and licks. Squinting at the tv, laughing and pointing and mimicking foreign soap operas and game shows. Donning ridiculous disguises and sneaking off to get lost down windy back streets, daring the other to eat the most revolting thing at each cafe we happen upon (so far: cow testicles, chocolate covered ants, pig ears …), having a quick puke, and then racing back and barely making it in time for soundcheck.

Perhaps we shouldn't lay about, barechested, each afternoon as we do in grassy city parks, silently soaking up the sun, (until Curt invariably sidles up to a bum and asks about his life.)

No more swimming lessons in heated hotel pools (he, having never really learned); no more laying awake in bed - or, after everyone else has gone to sleep, on the bus or the plane, reading to each other from favorite books; and definitely: no more stolen kisses at the Louve.

Maybe this becoming close business whilst engaging as we have been in non stop, super intense sex is genuinely ill advised, because, of course ... one runs the _risk_, doesn't one? There is definite safety in the friendship/fuck buddy business - it's well known - that simply isn't there in the lover/boyfriend thing.

We are employer and employee, mega super star and unknown opening act. I'm married, (if unhappily), in fact, and my wife has a hugely massive fan base of her own.

In short, should this continue, should we keep proceeding down this road ... things could blow to very, _very_ messy bits.

* * *

><p>We pass the moments in silence, holding hands, and not acknowledging that we are.<p>

It's awkward, but at the same time, I have just had as rigorous, if quick, a sex session as any, and therefore all my body wants is _sleep_.

Just as I'm drifting off for good ... out of the blue, he speaks. His voice is soft, and worn.

"I heard what you said."

"Hm?" I mutter sleepily.

He regrips my hand.

"What you said to me ..._before_, in the middle of it." He clears his throat. "I just … I just wanted you to know."

My eyes spring open.

Oh no.

_Oh dear god. _

_He can only be referring to that one thing, can't he?_

My gut plunges straight into my toes.

_What the fuck to say? _

_Rush to deny?_

I'm frozen in place, too mortified to form words, and as the milliseconds pass, the hope, the chance of any possible credible denial or bullshit explanation quickly evaporates.

_Pretend I don't know what he's referring to, then?_

Forget it. I'm a horrid liar, and by the tone of his voice, he wouldn't believe it anyway.

_Oh god. I need to crawl away right now … crawl away from this bed, this room, and die._

But wait! More humiliation!

_Is that why he grabbed my hand just now to begin with, _I think?_ To try to soften the blow when he lets me down, when he tells me it's sweet, it's nice ... but he's just not interested?_

I'm so wrapped up in the intensity of my self absorbed self loathing that I almost leap into the air when he speaks again.

"I mean … I feel like I know you pretty damn well by this point, Brian, and I know we rag on each other and shit on each other all the time ... but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say … unless I'm _completely_ fucking nuts … what you said … it just … it felt kinda real ..." His eyes flick quickly in my direction, then back to the ceiling. "And I'm cool with that."

Oh god. He's _cool_ with it? Cool with the unrequited, one-sided thing? He'll be nice to me, now, humour me, but, of course, we can't ever sleep together again because he won't want to torture me?

"I mean," he continues, completely oblivious to my torturous readings of his every word, "it's not hard to see. We sorta stopped sleeping with other people a while ago now, right? And much as I'm wiped out by the tour, exhausted and dreaming about home and shit, I started totally dreading the end of it. You have no idea."

_Dreading the end of the tour? This tour that he's stuck on with me? But why? What the fuck is he talking about?_

"It's not like it has to change things." He announces conversationally, like we're sitting at a cafe shooting the breeze. "It doesn't have to change the friendship … or the working relationship, or whatever. Really, I don't think it does."

The _working relationship_. We're _business_ partners, after all.

It's like, in an effort to spare me the humiliation of having my declaration acknowledged … and summarily rejected, he's resorted to corporate-speak/PR mode, but at the moment, to my ears, coming from him – a very decidedly _non_-corporate type - it's the sound of him speaking in tongues, babbling unbelievably confusing and insulting nonsense.

Trying to hold back my humiliation and rage, I flop onto my side to face him.

"You don't think WHAT does?"

He shrugs.

"Being in love. I don't think it has to wreck the friendship."

There. Done. _Now _I'm incensed!

I sit up quickly. I point to my own chest and begin shouting.

"Is that so?" I snap. "And it won't wreck the business partnership, either?! Well thank god for that! _Listen to me, Curt! **I** am in love with **YOU!**_ Because I can never keep my goddamn idiot mouth shut, the cat is now officially out of the horrid, stupid bag! What the fuck are you _talking_ about, with this 'dreading the end of the tour' shit?"

He tries to interrupt but I talk, or rather, shout, right over him.

"_You_ have nothing to worry about or feel humiliated over, _do _you?! I would _like _to think if _anything _right now, you would absolute be _welcoming_ the end of the bloody stupid tour, that you would at least _respect _me enough – that you'd be _decent _enough to not want to _humour _me – your friend, and now the source of your pity - day in and day out, _rather than looking me in the eye every fucking day knowing how I feel!"_

_"Brian!" _he yells. "For fuck's sake,_ I'm trying to tell you how I feel!"_

I squint.

"Huh?"

"I thought it was obvious!"

"You thought _WHAT _was obvious?!" I shriek.

_"You fucking idiot!"_ he shrieks back._ "I'm in love with you, too!"_

* * *

><p>I jerk my head back so hard, it almost strains my neck.<p>

I stare in utter confusion and disbelief.

I can't process it.

I search his face, trying to understand.

My stomach starts to slowly un-cave.

_It doesn't make sense, though_.

It _can't_.

* * *

><p>"I was <em>trying<em> to say," he continues, "that us falling in love doesn't have to _fuck_ with things."

It hits me again.

_"Falling in love?"_ I cry. "What are you talking about? _You never said a word!"_

He stops. He laughs.

"Oh my god, neither did you! I'm dreading the end of the tour cuz – I mean, again, I thought it was obvious – we've stopped sleeping around, for fuck's sake. We spend every waking moment together; I totally love every second I hang out with you; I can never get you out of my _mind_, for fuck's sake; it's to the point where I can't stand when there's a shut door between us – I mean, how pathetic is that? And meanwhile the sex is absolutely A-one fucking in-_sane_ … so when you add it all up, I mean ya, ... _I'm pretty fucking sure I'm in love."_

I flop onto my back, shocked absolutely stupid – wonderful as it all is, positively mind blowing and screamingly unexpected ... I almost can't listen to it, can't take it in as he babbles onward.

"I wasn't about to say anything cuz … I mean, how ridiculous does it sound? In love with a mega superstar? The guy on the cover of the NME and Rolling Stone and Cream? Ya, right! You're a fucking _god_, Brian. Why the fuck would it matter what _I_ felt? You're sure as fuck not gonna stop at _me_, and why should you? Millions of people would kill to be with you. People'd chop off their arms."

My head spins and twirls in equal parts delirium and confusion. I can't make it stop. I raise a hand to each temple and press hard.

"Shut the fuck up a minute."

"Shut up?"

"Yes. I'm trying … holy shit, I'm trying to _process_. Before I have a fucking coronary or explode in a million hundred pieces … or both at the same time."

He laughs.

My head spins and spins as my heart does back flips and somersaults. I can't take it in and I can't breathe.

_This wasn't supposed to happen,_ plays on a loop in my head.

_People don't picture things they want, die over things they'll keel over if they can't have … and then it comes true? Full, living color true?_

My brain is tripping over his words, over all that he's said, searching for the punch line, the part that reveals it all as a cruel, sick joke.

I'm searching, scouring, straining my aching head …

When suddenly there's a _click_. An abrupt shift. My pulse, my body temperature, return almost to normal. It all makes sense, I think.

It was maybe even meant to be.

* * *

><p>"You okay?" he asks.<p>

Am I okay? The person over whom I've fallen hopelessly head over heels has just declared his feelings. And, incredibly – miraculously - they involve _me_.

"You're joking, right?" I say, smiling, taking his hand. "You'd have to be a _complete_ idiot to have no idea just how _okay_ I am."

A super-slow motion smile creeps across his face.

I slide closer. We grab hands. We lean in. We kiss, soft, slow. We pull back.

"And if you honestly think," I say, "for a single second, that I would want to be with someone in any serious way who would chop off their arms - who is looking for the guy on the magazine cover – who thinks that guy is _me _– you'd be dead, dead motherfucking wrong, Curt. I'm a wanker. I'm an _arsehole_, but thankfully I'm not guilty of that."

"Okay," he chuckles.

"And while I'm listing what you got wrong-"

He laughs.

"Yes?"

"I must point out that you're wrong about something else, too." I inhale a deep breath. "You have no idea how happy it would make me – how tickled – absolutely elated, absolutely honored I'd be– you _have_ to know this - _to stop at you."_

He smiles warmly – the pure blazing sun is radiating out of that face.

We lean in again, and kiss, after which we stare and gaze, transfixed, like lovers, like fools_. _


	2. The Other Elephant

_Bangbangbang_

Pause ...

__Bangbangbangbangbang__

_"_Brian?!" __

Jerry.

Again.

Despite the day's monumental turn of events – despite everything – and as proof that the human male can only fight the post orgasm go-the-fuck-to-sleep enzyme for so long, we had each fallen into a deep slumber.

_"Fuck ___off!"__ I croak groggily, sliding an arm across Curt's chest and laying my head on it_._

__BANG! B-BANG! BANG! B-BANG!__

_"___Brian___,_ I __need__ to speak with Curt. It's __important___."_

_"What the___ ..." __I mutter, lifting my head and yelling, "What the _hell _would make you think __Curt Wild__ would be in __my__ room?!"

"Very funny," he snaps back. "Would you _please_ just open the stupid bloody door?"

Before I can tell him fuck off again – I do so relish mistreating him – Curt jumps out of bed, stark bollock naked, looks back at me grinning, and goes for the door.

"Sure thing, Jer," he says, opening it.

"Jesus __Christ,___" _Jerry mutters as he bolts past him into the room.

"What's wrong?" Curt asks, innocently. "Never seen a naked man before?"

"In Brian's room?" He snorts. "Too many to count."

Curt crawls back into bed, pulls up the sheet and joins me in leaning against the fancy padded headboard, lights himself a cigarette, and reaches for my hand, holding it out on the top of the blanket.

"Well aren't you two just the picture of __wedded ____bliss___," _Jerry says.

"Nah," Curt says, "that's that __other__ fic."

"-What _is_ it, Jerry?" I snap. "What excuse could you __possibly__ have for interrupting me – us – __twice__, in our private time?-"

_"-_You do realize it's barely an hour before the show?"

This startles me – as I had genuinely lost track. But then … this hasn't exactly been a normal, uneventful day, either.

"And I will be ready in time! When am I_ not?! _And by the way, don't pretend __this,"__ I add, flicking my thumb back and forth between Curt and myself, "isn't what you want."

"Ya," Curt nods, smiling, "isn't this totally the press's wet dream? Us two, in bed," he says, gesturing toward the floor, "with giant purple dildos on the floor!"

Jerry spies it, a meter off, and snaps his head away in disgust.

"Well seeing as we are in __Italy" __Jerry says, "where, as in most countries outside England, homosexuality is still __illegal___, _I don't think that's advisable."

_"Homosexu___al___ity?" _Curt asks with mock anxiety, turning to look at me, __"is that what we just did?"__

"Shut up," I say. "So what is it, Jerry? What's so bloody stupid important all of a sudden? State your case, _quickly_. We've barely an hour to the show."

Jerry reaches into his coat and tosses a set of papers onto the bed.

"Curt's contract," he explains.

Curt dives on it._ "What about it? What's wrong?" _He lives in fear of being kicked off the tour, and as a result, fired by his record company.

I grab it from him and flip pages, quickly scanning.

"Jerry, this is … this is absolutely the standard contract all my opening acts sign … only you've underlined and circled some sections, for some reason … accommodations, food, the _bus_ ..."

_"___As__ your opening act," Jerry says, "and as a _strict_ part of the contract, may I remind you, Brian, that Curt is __supposed__ to be traveling and sleeping in the tour bus, __with__ his band, __nightly___. _He isn't_ entitled _to hotel privileges. Certainly not these balcony king-suites he and his band have been renting these last few weeks. Not that he's even been __using__ his, apparently ..."

"We slept on the bus," Curt interjects quickly, "me, my whole band, every night, the first, what … five, six weeks? We ate take-out every day; we never touched the spread back stage-"

"-There's also been," Jerry interrupts, looking at me as if Curt isn't in the room, "these last few weeks, a positively __obscene__ amount spent on five star restaurants, drink, and other excesses I'd rather not know about."

I pull myself up.

"This is ridiculous! We are __swimming__ in cash! The cash that __I__ earn on a nightly basis by selling out every show all over the world! I will be __damned__ if we aren't going to travel in utmost style and comfort!"

_"___You__ are entitled to that, yes," Jerry snaps, "seeing as you are the only bone fide rock star in this room-"

_"_-Curt is a genius!"__ I bellow, gripping his hand.

Jerry stops and clears his throat, barely keeping his eyes from rolling.

"While I __do__ believe that is __debatable___, _it is_ also _entirely irrelevant to this discussion, Brian, which is about the fact that it is __very__ clearly laid out in the contract __he signed__ that he and his band do _not_ have 5 star hotel, restaurant and drink privileges."

Curt turns to me, looking worried.

"I don't wanna cause trouble. We can go back to the bus, no problem. As buses go, it's actually pretty fucking nice-"

_"-No!"_ I snap,_ "bollocks!" _I turn to Jerry. "I repeat: we are __swimming___ in cash!"_

Jerry crosses his arms.

"Of __course__ we are, Brian, and as you know, that cash is allotted for a whole host of other, insanely expensive things, such as renting those giant _stadiums_ that you sell out each night – do you imagine they come free? And paying off promoters and police and code inspectors; the cost of private jets – holy shit – just the fuel alone to criss-cross the world! The baggage, the excess taxes, the transport trucks and vans, the visas and permits, the staff in each city, need I go on? The _insurance_ on this whole bloody thing! Which, need I remind you, when we added Curt to the bill, nearly _doubled_!"

_"_What?!"__ Curt cries, __"Why?"__ He pleads, looking quickly from Jerry to me.

"Why do you __think?!___" _Jerry snaps.

I jump out of bed and walk quickly towards him, a finger poking his chest.

_"_How __dare__ you walk in here making demands and insulting Curt!-"

"-I am only demanding that he abide by the contract!"

"Curt and his band are my guests on this tour, Jerry, do you understand? They are_ electrifying_ audiences all over the __world__ – like no other opening act I've ever had! Not even close! You've __seen___ it! _We're even selling out in fucking __Russia___! _In_ Turkey, _for fuck's sake!_ Yugoslavia!"_

He points.

"The contract."

I dive on it._ "Fuck the contact!" … _and tear it in two, letting it drop to the floor at his feet. "Here's what you're going to do!" I shout. "First thing, you're on the phone to my accountant, and we're re-drawing the terms! Not only are Curt and his band getting full hotel and meal privileges – fuck the stipend, but we're upping their take – _doubling_ it!"

I'm right in his face. He stares back, steely eyed. He speaks calmly.

"Well now I can see you have completely lost your mind."

"Have I, Jerry? Maybe I need a new manager then, starting tomorrow, perhaps?"

He harrumphs.

"I've got my __own__ legally binding contract."

"And may I remind you that I have a set of _the_ highest of high powered sleezeball solicitors in the entire industry – which is saying a lot! - who are _eager_ and _expert_ at finding __loop___holes, _remember? It was the number one reason you hired them! I could easily have you cut loose tomorrow, if I wished it, and you know that that is no idle threat. Or perhaps you would prefer to simply have your hotel privileges revoked? Spend the next several weeks on the tour bus? Because that can definitely be arranged."

He's incensed, but I can also detect the subtle down shift in his eyes, the deflation of his chest.

"He'll never agree to it," he says, quietly, meaning my accountant and Curt's contract, ignoring every threat I've just made.

I grin in his face.

"Of course he will. You know why?"

He sighs in exasperation.

"Why, Brian?" he says in a sing-songy, sarcastic voice, "because _'money talks'?"_

_"_Well, yes, there _is _that, plus the little matter of me having made you wealthy, and even a bit famous, yourself, you shan't forget. But mostly it's because I know you, and it couldn't be clearer to anyone that knows you – or anyone who doesn't, that you are every bit as addicted to the money and the fame – let alone the ego stroke - as me."

"Oh, _please_," he snorts. "No one can compete with _you_ there."

"Perhaps not, but then I _am_ the rock star, here, Jerry. You see how this works? Between you and me,_ I_ am the number one selling, multi-platinum times about _thirty_ rock star, and in fact, genuine world wide, rock n roll _superstar_."

"A _God_," Curt quietly says behind me.

I turn, and climb back into bed next to him, taking his hand.

"Without me, Jerry, _you. are. nothing_. That is indisputable."I pause to let it sink in. "While without you, _I'm still a God."_ I shrug. "It's just a simple fact."

His eyes bore into mine. It's not a look I haven 't seen dozens of times before - he wants to strangle me - but he also knows that every single word coming from my mouth is the cold, unassailable truth.

"And that means, very simply," I continue calmly, pulling the sheet up and closing the deal, "that if you love the money and the fame – if you crave it in your bones like I know you do - and if you intend to continue to ride this gravy train - then it's really very simple: _What I say, goes._ _Period_. End of story."

_"Fabulous,"_ he says dryly, gulping back whatever he wishes he could actually say, and turning towards the door.

_"So we are in agreement, then?"_ I call after him. "No more bus, and no more takeout, and those guys get a big fat raise?"

"I shall speak with the accountant!" he snarls.

"And you will make it happen." A statement, not a question.

_"Yes!"_ he snaps, ripping open the door, and slamming it shut.

* * *

><p>Curt, having nervously sucked down almost the entirety of his cigarette in the two minutes that took, looks at me, wide eyed.<p>

_"Wow." _he finally says. _"Far out."_

I laugh.

"Seriously," he continues, "that was _intense_."

"Was it? I don't even notice with Jerry anymore. It seems every conversation with him these days is like that." I turn and climb up, swinging my knees over his hips to straddle him, crouching over the soft silk sheet and taking the dead cig from his hand. "In other words ..." I say, whispering in his face,_ "I always get what I want."_

"It's _hot_," he deadpans.

"You think so?" I laugh.

_"Yes."_

We kiss.

* * *

><p>"Thanks for the raise, by the way," he says, "you just practically made me rich."<p>

"Hardly. You were getting a pittance to begin with."

He takes my hand.

"You didn't have to do that though, Brian."

"I know. I wanted to. You deserve it. And I meant what I said – I do think you're a musical genius."

He grins.

"Love is definitely blind."

I stop.

_"Love?!"_ I deadpan, with derision in my voice, pulling back to look at him with a straight, scornful face. "Who the _hell_ said anything about _love?!"_

There's a half beat, just a flicker, in which his face falls, in which he believes for a moment that I've somehow already turned on him, that I hadn't meant what I'd said to begin with ...

_"Oh, God, _Curt," I plead, laying my hand on his cheek, "I was … I was _kidding."_

He can't be unaware of my reputation as a heartless, icy-veined bastard with an endless string of bitter ex-lovers, the type who run straight to the press with monstrous stories ... hence it's not, perhaps, an unreasonable conclusion to have jumped to.

No matter … the look on his face has already passed – he's figured it out without me telling him.

"I know," he says, trying to laugh. "Y'just freaked me out for a sec, that's all."

I'm haunted, though, by the look of what such a thing would do to him, by the hollow, pained expression so evident – even for a millisecond – in his eyes, bearing in mind how unspeakably betrayed he was from a young age by those who professed to love him.

_"I'm so sorry._ I was just being an arsehole. You know I love you madly, Curt. I'm a bastard about a lot of things, but I swear I would never lie about that. Not to _you_. I _couldn't_."

He sighs. He takes my hand from his cheek, and holds it between his.

"I know."

"At this point in my life - and I admit I've learned this the hard way - it's honestly not something I take lightly."

His face spreads slowly into a soft, shy smile.

"Well … I guess you just figured out my secret, then."

"Your secret?"

His eyes sparkle.

_"That I don't, either."_

* * *

><p>We kiss ... slow, sweet, and easy. I run a hand up into the thick matte of unwashed hair and round the back of his head and pull him closer, savoring the gritty, ever present DetroitAmerican scent, the flavor and texture of him post sex and post cigarette, and climb further into his lap … where I bump into the hardness.

_"Dirty boy,"_ I whisper.

He gives me a faint pout.

"I _told_ you it was hot."

I smile into his mouth.

"So it turns you on, watching me abuse Jerry?"

He pulls down the sheet, and brings my hand towards him.

"It turns me on when you _get your way."_

"Ya?" I say, caressing him. "You understand, though," I whisper, brushing against his lips, _"that I always do …?"_

* * *

><p>He's sitting, face tilted upward, quietly watching mine as I rise, hang onto the high headboard, and, with his guidance, carefully lower in his lap. He feels warm and full inside my body, tight if not quite deep. Our lips slide together and pull apart as I writhe, slowly, rhythmically, teasing my nipples along his open mouth, grazing them against his face, running my erection up his torso. At a certain point, he silently maneuvers me round to face the other direction. The rise and fall is easier this way, and the gentle, and then not so gentle bounce off his thighs makes for deeper, less strenuous access, and also affords him full reign over my body.<p>

He pulls me back against his chest and chews on my lobes, yanks my hair and and licks the sweat off my neck, whispering nastiness and tormenting my nipples as he ignores … and then doesn't ignore, my aching cock.

I raise slowly … and then drop, squeezing on the down stroke and landing hard on his balls. It's his all time favorite sexual recipe – _deep house_ – the intense pleasure of the tight, rapid, forceful and complete embedding of his cock – there is no other sensation like it in the world – ending each time with that exquisite pinch of pain. Well, perhaps not _pain_. His balls are hypersensitive at this point, yes, but I'm not digging my nails into the pair, as he's sometimes asked me to do, or slapping them, as he's learned he loves during oral. This is more a certain yummy _discomfort_ – the biting exclamation point at the end of the sensual sentence from the slight crushing each time I land, indeed, each time I _aim_ for them, which, with a hand on either hip, he is actually helping me to do.

* * *

><p>It was the original elephant in the room between us, some months back now, that he didn't want to acknowledge, or admit to, that was so obviously there. The hidden, previously dormant desire that he both craved, and also dreaded and as it turns out, felt deep shame over. Because ... who likes pain? Wants it? Seeks it out? Sick people, he'd been told. Indeed the root of it in his life lay in the hospital – otherwise known as the mental institution – where, starting at age 13, he was kept as a 'patient' for over a year against his will. One day a staff member he'd fancied, a handsome, but none-too-friendly orderly, gave him a sponge bath, and was rough about it. Much to his humiliation, and having no control, at that age, over his own libido, it made him hard - one of the very first times he'd ever <em>been<em> hard - and the man cruelly mocked him for it, but roughly jerked him to a thundering climax, anyway.

For days afterwards he was sore – the man had squeezed and rubbed him too hard, with a dry, calloused hand, without soap, lube or even spit - but the orgasm that resulted was so intense he couldn't stop thinking about it, and masturbating over it, even as the man publicly mocked him and told him that only 'psychotic faggots' liked pain.

Which didn't stop him from seeking Curt out for his next sponge bath, nor the next, nor Curt from letting him, only to have the whole thing happen again, each time. Thankfully he was discharged from the place shortly thereafter, but it all left him with a deep sense of confusion and shame, and as well as an equally deep craving he felt he had to keep hidden.

All of which is why I so delight in our pain play – edgy and rough, but always consensual, with no residual shame – I won't allow it.

* * *

><p>That he would reveal this side of himself to me, that he would have even told me these stories at all, let alone allow me to attempt to rewrite his past by engaging in a revisit of these very sensations, says more about his level of trust in me than anything, I believe.<p>

Which is why, despite my past behaviours, I don't feel like I could ever betray it.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, in his lap, faster and faster I grind, tightening my grip, and landing ever harder, driven all the while by his sheer, naked need, his insanely sexy grunts, pleadings, and gasps; by the fingernails digging into my hips.<p>

It's intense, what we're doing. Sick, some would say. Dirty and perverted. Of course it is.

_And I love it._

Surely it would be wrong for Curt Wild and Brian Slade to engage in vanilla, housewife-approved sex?

* * *

><p>Delicious as it all his, he's reached his end point. I know this because in an instant and without warning, I'm thrown off his lap and tossed forward onto my elbows. He falls out, momentarily, in the process, which is such a shock – all I can feel is lube and cool air where he'd just been - before slamming back home, lunging and bucking with all his pent up lust and might, so that I'm forced to grab the footboard now, clinging tight, hanging on lest I be fucked straight off the bed – flying across the room and cracking my head open on the door.<p>

* * *

><p>Quickly, the wave approaches ... so powerful that my eyes roll completely forward and back in my head, before I let out a great gasping <em>shriek<em>.

Behind me, he hammers away through it, and then, some seconds along, comes with a shout and a gasping lunge, himself.

* * *

><p>An upward glance at the clock reveals that we are just under 22 minutes from showtime.<p> 


	3. I Promise to Be Gentle

We scramble about in a panic, taking 10 second showers and throwing on clothes (me: pale blue satin. he: the tightest pair of brown leather trousers in existence, which I recently bought him as a gift (though it's really a gift for me).

Somehow we make it to the limo with moments to spare. On the way, after ordering the driver to get us there in time or it will _be his job_, I crouch in Curt's lap and apply the charcoal-black khol eyeliner I've become so fond of, as it looks so bloody fetching on him.

"It's faggy," he shrugs. "But I like it, " he admits.

"It's fucking _hot_, is what it is," I say, leaning back and eying him up and down. "But then isn't everything on you?"

* * *

><p>Because of the insane traffic caused by the gig, and due only to my driver laying on his horn, blowing every red light and stop sign, and flooring it down back alleys and residential side streets, do we manage to arrive in time, if just under a minute until Curt and his band are due to take the stage. I am substantially more freaked about this than Curt, who assures me that his band pretty much wings it each night, anyway.<p>

"You don't _rehearse_?"I ask, astonished. "No _setlist_?"

"Nah," he says calmly, shrugging, "we just play what we feel."

* * *

><p>We screech to a halt outside the back of the venue, after passing endless, blocks-long lineups of fans, only to meet … a giant pileup of fans. With the escalation of fame, there is now always the more hardcore crowd who somehow manage to figure out which of the many rear doors to these massive structures is the one I will use.<p>

And the snooping paparazzi, of course, are on the scent, so that in addition to those taken on stage at every gig, and the innumerable photos shoots and magazine spreads, there are now shots every day of me climbing out of limos, pushing away autograph seekers, and rushing inside … which maybe _sounds_ glamorous, but is routinely unflattering in that I am always looking haggard and stressed, and worst of all, _sans makeup_.

* * *

><p>In more recent weeks, what the press has started seeing through their lens is, as Curt put it, their very wet dream, and what I'm sure they secretly peg as part of the on ongoing Jerry-mandated publicity stunt – Curt and I arriving together.<p>

He, meanwhile finds it all to be an absolute hoot, as he is positively tickled to be in any newspaper at all.

"Aside from the police log. Or the obituaries."

* * *

><p>What is preoccupying me at the current moment, however, is what the press is about to witness. Something new, which will <em>definitely<em> make their flashbulbs burst.

My first instinct is to drop his, however Curt likes this hand holding business so much, that he has decided not to let go of mine as we exit the limo.

* * *

><p>Yes. I have happily played along with the 'are they or aren't they' pretend biglam coupledom thing, as it was all part of the business, the decadent, sexual outlaw image I've crafted, and yes, lived to a degree. And after all, we _do_ make a smashing pair to liven up the dreary music press … however as we make this small public gesture for the very first time – whether or not the press knows it's real – something strange dawns on me.

Strange for me, anyway.

That, considering today's monumental mutual declarations, suddenly, it now feels like … how does one put it?

Like … _this isn't for show._ This thing we're doing. It's _real_. It's _private_.

It's for _us_.

_Not_ for public consumption.

* * *

><p>It's too late though, of course - the flashbulbs are indeed popping to a blinding degree, and I'm not about to add to what will already be a firestorm of coverage by dropping his hand.<p>

_"Maxwell Demon in Gay Public Spat!"_

_"Slade and Wild – Lover's Row? See inside for pics!"_

And the like.

* * *

><p>Security holds back the crowd as we bound up the stairs two at at time, bolt through the door, and sprint breathless up two more flights into the back stage area.<p>

"Curt, what the _FUCK_," his bandmate and best friend Jim says in a highly displeased tone. "We got like _thirty seconds!"_

"Sorry, man," Curt deadpans, hurriedly strapping on a guitar, "we were ..." He looks from Jim, to me, "... y'know ..." and back again ..._ "fucking."_

For a moment, there's dead air as the two stare at each other ... before bursting out laughing.

_"Asshole,"_ Jim mutters, slapping Curt upside the head as they walk through the curtain, joining the others on stage.

* * *

><p>I'm due in makeup, but can't resist hanging back, and peaking at them from side stage.<p>

Curt huddles briefly with Jim and his two other bandmates, before breaking away, and with a single stamp of his feet, launches into the opening chords of_ TV Eye_.

The guitar intro, already longer than what one usually finds in a rock song, is extended while Curt bounces and lunges and spins, before finally grabbing the mic and whaling out the opening note in a howling, throat murdering scream.

I laugh. It's his favorite of their songs to perform, and this extended, more raucous than normal beginning speaks to his being in an exceptionally good mood, which I will attribute not only to his boyish, lifelong love of playing rock and roll with his mates, but also, of course, to the events of the afternoon.

* * *

><p>Backstage, after the application of various foundations, powders, rouge, mascara and sparkly glitter spray to my hair and face, I'm outfitted in one of my more ridiculous getups, which is saying a lot. It's the deep V-neck number with the jagged rainbow lightning strike, enormous puffed out shoulder pads, and long droopy wizard sleeves. Not to mention matching 6 inch platform boots which I almost literally need a stepladder to get in to.<p>

Lately the outfits, the hair and makeup … it's all begun to feel so … yesterday. Like _'me'_ a year ago when I was still on the beginnings of the ascent, ready and eager to do the right drugs, kiss the right ass, fuck absolutely everyone and everything I needed to … and then some. I happily, willingly threw myself at every crazy gamble and scheme if I thought that fame lay on the other side, aided and egged on every step of the way, of course, by Jerry.

But in truth, I hardly needed the push.

And now, of course – it's rather a cliché, isn't it? - the star I've created, the monster and his ridiculous outfits, has begun to feel like a trap. Like a pose that no longer fits. Like something I'm desperate to wriggle out from under.

Not that Jerry will hear of it.

"Are you _insane?!_ You fans _demand_ Maxwell Demon, Brian! You _are_ him, to them! They see him in the fan magazines. They rip out the pages and paste them to their walls. You can't bloody show up in _jeans and trainers."_

I'm standing with my arms straight out to my sides as my two dresser girls button and zip and straighten and fit.

"Please. I'm hardly proposing jeans and trainers."

I hang onto the two women, step up into the sequined boots, and observe myself in the mirror.

I sigh.

"I look like a fucking circus performer."

"What makes you think you aren't?" Jerry snorts.

_"Fuck off."_

"Brian, I frankly don't understand you. You're in the quite extraordinary position of having created a chart bustingly successful character, a persona who has taken off to a degree that any artist on this _planet_ would kill for. You'll go into the pop music _and_ fashion history books. You _own the bloody world."_

It's funny that as Jerry blathers on about history and artists and the world, all I can see in his eyes are bloody dollar signs.

"... Your fans," he continues, "_demand_ the dazzling, otherworldly creature. They are in love with him. They're _obsessed_. You _can't_ disappoint them."

"And still expect to take their money."

"Correct," he says quickly.

I keep my mouth still as the special thick, dark purple lipstick is carefully applied, then curl it into a pout as I glance down at myself.

"Well all I know is, this is getting fucking _old."_

* * *

><p>We exit the dressing room and stand stage-side ... and it's as if I've stumbled upon another planet, one made up of fresh air, freedom, spontaneity and abandon. There are Curt and his mates stomping about in all their sloppy, sweaty glory, laughing, pogo-jumping, falling down on their arses and missing notes and ending songs on the wrong beat … and it's glorious. They're clearly having the time of their lives on this tour, and, as usual, have long since brought the crowd along with them via Curt's ever manic, brilliant, completely fearless, and by now shirtless performance. (Having earlier flung himself headlong into the assemblage only to return without it.)<p>

As Jerry bitches and moans ad nauseum, I feel my face flush with jealousy.

By god, look at them! Their sense of joy! Of abandon and play! And by christ, look at that Curt Wild! The sexual energy truly pours off him in waves – not unhelped – phew!- by how he looks in leather ...

* * *

><p>As the final tune winds down Jerry groans in exasperation.<p>

"Well _that_ was a bloody fucking mess," he spits.

"Oh, will you fuck _off,"_ I snap, turning to look at him. "I would _kill_ for – I wish I had _half_ his-"

I spy something out of the corner of my eye. I look. It's Curt, head turned sharply to the side looking directly at me from the mic, with an enormous, full faced grin – apparently he hadn't known I was here, watching, as I'm normally caught up in the choreography of bloody outfit changes and such right up til the last moment.

He turns his head and speaks into the mic.

"Hey, ya know what I think is fucking _stupid?"_ He asks the crowd, who roar as crowds do over anything said from a stage. _"Trying to fucking outlaw queers." _

Jerry about falls over. "Is he _mad?!" _

I admit, it _is_ a bit shocking. Curt isn't normally given to political, or really any pronouncements, generally, and here he has zeroed in on what is not exactly an uncontroversial topic, in a country where being 'queer' is, indeed, illegal.

Such a statement will make the papers and may get us into trouble … but Curt, as is his wont, doesn't care.

"It's like," he continues, "trying to outlaw _fucking." _

I burst out laughing. There is a mixed response from the audience, who don't seem to know how to react.

"But it's stupider even than _that_," he continues, "I mean ..."

"He _means?!"_ Jerry snaps, turning quickly to one of our sound engineers, Simon, and makes a slicing motion across his neck: _"Cut his mic!"_

_"NO!"_ I bellow, looking at Simon. "Don't you _dare!_ Understand me?! Or it will be your bloody _JOB!"_

On stage, as his bandmates look at each other quizzically, Curt continuous, oblivious. "Try zeroing in on a tiny subset of people and telling them they can't eat, or breathe." He looks over at me, and back. "Or _fall in love_, I mean … good luck with _that_ shit."

The crowd roars, but there is a definite mixture of response: cheers, boos and catcalls - the tension in the air is distinctly palpable, and uncomfortable.

It's exciting, and scary, what he's doing. Not at all the type of excitement my shows tend to generate. The greatest 'risks' taken from my stage amount to those of the fashion variety.

Meanwhile, there are increasing boos and catcalls.

"I will ring his fucking _neck!"_ Jerry meanwhile snaps.

"Not before I take an _axe_ to _yours!" _I snap back.

"Hey!" Curt says suddenly, shouting into the mic. "You guys ready to see Brian Slade?"

This causes an instant turnaround in the crowd's mood, the place positively exploding in screams and cheers.

"What is he _doing_, announcing you!" Jerry says angrily. "We've never-"

"-Huh?" Curt continues, turning his head and holding his hand behind his ear. "I can't _hear_ you! I _SAID_, are you guys READY for some _MAXWELL_ FUCKIN' _DEMON!?"_ he adds, taunting and whipping them into a deafening, venue shaking roar.

* * *

><p>In the next split second, before I realize it, he's flown to my side and is pulling me out onto the stage by hand.<p>

Oh, no. This is definitely _not_ standard protocol, and Jerry – and my crew - will not be pleased. My entrances are _very_ tightly controlled, expensively choreographed and timed, with lighting, coloured smoke, and innumerable props.

"Curt, _wait,"_ I protest "you _can't,"_ … but it's too late. In an instant, we are standing together at the mic, under the glare of the spotlight.

* * *

><p>I look. That gorgeous, sweaty, wide open face is beaming like the sun.<p>

The world, and everyone else in it, fall away.

* * *

><p>I'm buzzing. How could I not be? Nervous, excruciatingly self conscious, the voice in the back of my head yelling how much I'm going to pay for this, but at the moment ... not caring.<p>

He, this man I love desperately, has only gone and _rescued_ me, for fuck's sake, from the very thing I've been stewing and stressing about for _weeks _– the bloody _routine_, the stultifying _script_, how boring and tired it has all become.

Which of course is all why management hadn't wanted him on the tour in the first place, why the insurance costs doubled, etc.

And why is that, exactly?

Because Curt Wild is _alive_. He personified excitement, beauty, talent, rebellion and danger. The polar opposite of stability and predictability; of deadly, stinking boredom.

Is there any wonder I was smitten from the first?

* * *

><p>The crowd, the flashbulbs are meanwhile going absolutely bonkers at the sight of the two of us standing here, I then realize ... fully holding hands.<p>

* * *

><p>Before Curt backs away, jokingly bowing to me as he does, and despite his intense dislike for the sort of thick, pasty stage lipsticks I wear, without warning he suddenly kisses me firm on the mouth, instantly quadrupling both the earsplitting volume and the bursting flash bulb count.<p>

When he pulls off, I'm in triple shock; the good, tingly kind, and high as the bloody freaking moon.

Just before he steps away for good, he touches my shoulder, brings his lips to my ear to whisper, or rather, due to the deafening, stomping roar, to _yell_:

"Sorry. I know I fucked your thing. Couldn't help it."

"It's okay," I shout back.

He grins at me. His eyes spark.

_"I love you."_

Jesus christ, it's still so bloody shocking to hear. I go to respond, my mouth starts to open, but gets stuck there.

He laughs. He leans into my ear again.

"Have a good show."

I nod.

"And just so you know, immediately afterwards," he continues, "_I'm gonna fuck the living shit out of you." _

… And with that ... instantly, he's gone ... and my band has replaced his, and I'm standing here in a daze, everyone expecting me to carry on like normal, like I didn't just hear what I did, like I don't want right this _instant_ and with every fiber of my being to turn and chase after him and make him make good on his promise ...

* * *

><p>I shakily grasp the mic in one hand. When I see the photos of myself in the next day's papers – the ones taken at this particular moment – I laugh. Because. I look pale and shell shocked, and, at least to my eyes, so glaringly, screamingly, obviously like a creature both desperately in love, and painfully in lust.<p>

* * *

><p>I cling to the mic. I force myself to speak normally.<p>

"And now," I say, pointing at Curt's departing form and then at the crowd, "you will _all applaud_ the _insanely_ hot and _disgustingly_ talented _MISTER CURT WILD_ and his amazing band, The Wild Rats!"

The place roars. I look back at my band momentarily, still flummoxed, still tingling. They stand there, blankly staring back, undoubtedly highly annoyed with me, but moreso with Curt, awaiting my signal for our return to the safe confines of _the script._

I then spy _him_, side stage, facing me, watching, flanked by a clearly angry Jerry, who is gesturing and barking in his ear. Curt is trying to ignore him – he's waiting for me to start so Jerry will shut up. Knowing how short a fuse Curt has, I turn quickly back to the mic.

"Good evening, and thanks for coming." The place erupts. "Before we begin, though, um, I just wanna strongly second the thing that was said a minute ago into the mic about, um ..." I stop here, as it all feels quite frightening, suddenly, under the glare of the bright lights and 20,000 sets of eyes plus the press, to even hint at any sort of a political statement – certainly my fans don't expect it as I've never, ever done it.

It might not exactly be welcomed.

I glance nervously back at Curt and see that Jerry has indeed shut up and they are both now looking at me with curiosity.

I look back at the crowd.

"Um, as I was saying … I wanna second what was said about, um …" I take a breath, and spit it out. _"Homosexuality being illegal_. I think it's _stupid_, and ..."

The crowd cheers, but I know enough about stardom to know that it – their seemingly positive reaction - is meaningless. Pretty much anything said by the star they have paid to see will be applauded and cheered. I could tell them I intend to kill and eat each of their grandmothers, and it would get the same response. (Only a small part of this is, I believe, due to the language barrier, but mostly not, as English is spoken widely, all over Europe.)

I don't look, but am confident Jerry is going into conniptions, and so quickly turn back to my band, count off, and launch into our planned opening number, which he cannot be mad about because it's written right there on the setlist – I _didn't_ just throw it in because of it's clearly homoerotic overtones - _"Lady Stardust"._

It's a song I wrote at some point a while back about a boy I imagined happening upon in a club: achingly beautiful, talented, charismatic, rebellious, and terribly misunderstood, whom I admire and want desperately to be like. Eerily prophetic, in that it foretold exactly what would happen to me with Curt, and yet was written years before I ever laid eyes on him.

Regardless, as far as I'm concerned, it _is_ about him, and so now tonite for the first time I will alter some of the original lyrics. (Wonder if the press will pick up on that.)

_People stared at the makeup on his face_  
><em>Laughed at his long blonde hair, his animal grace<em>

_The boy in leather trousers_  
><em>Jumped up on the stage<em>  
><em>And lady stardust sang his songs<em>  
><em>Of darkness and disgrace<em>

_And he was aaallllright, the band was altogether_  
><em>Yes he was aaallllright (more than alright), <em>

_the song went on forever_  
><em>And he was awful nice<em>  
><em>Really quite out of sight <em>

_And he sang aaalllll night loooooong_

_Femme fatales emerged from shadows_  
><em>To watch this creature fair<em>  
><em>Boys stood upon their chairs<em>  
><em>To make their point of view<em>  
><em>I smiled sadly for a love I could not obey<em>

_Lady Stardust sang his songs_  
><em>Of darkness and dismay<em>

_And he was alright, the band was altogether_  
><em>Yes he was alright, the song went on forever<em>  
><em>And he was awful nice (and beautiful, and gorgeous, and hot,)<em>  
><em>Really quite paradise <em>

_And he sang aaallllll night loooooong_

* * *

><p>I glance sideways. He knows the story of the song, and he and I exchange huge, gushing grins.<p>

Yes, anyone looking at us can see it.

_Brian Slade and Curt Wild are in love._

* * *

><p>The remainder of the show, as I point out to Jerry afterwards, follows <em>the script<em> in every way, including four torturous outfit changes, and is extremely well received by the crowd, who, to my deep frustration, demand not the usual two, but fucking _three_ bloody encores.

I resist the urge to pull Curt out on stage for the last number, figuring we will have enough hell to pay as it is, and with the last note still reverberating through the speakers, dash off stage straight into his arms.

* * *

><p>Back stage I stand on a small platform as my two dresser girls begin the slow, careful undoing of one of my more insane outfits, all whilst Jerry blathers on.<p>

"And we sure as fuck won't be having any more ridiculous _political_ statements. You, the very embodiment of hip 1970s and _not_ the 60's! Political bollocks is _not_ what your fans pay to see, for fuck's sake! _So_ bloody tiresome and tedious! Obnoxious! Denouncing a country's law whilst being _hosted_ by that country?!"

"Jerry, you are acting exactly like a man for whom tonite I _didn't_ just make several thousand pounds."

Curt, hair awry, shirtless and still slightly damp, stands in the corner behind Jerry and my dressers, and chuckles.

Jerry turns and looks at him with murder in his eyes.

"This, of course, is _your_ exceptionally bad influence."

Curt grins and shrugs, takes a puff on his cig, and wisely says nothing.

"Yes, it _is_ his fault," I say. "Just a _terrible_ influence, this bravery and integrity business."

"Call if what you want, Brian. Give it big, heroic sounding names. The bottom line is, it's bad for business."

I laugh.

"And that _is_ all you care about, of course."

"Well you're awfully late to the _cause_ business, I do believe, Brian, hmm? Next you'll be donating 100% of your proceeds to charity?"

I grin.

"Why, what a splendid idea! Holiday camp for young, aspiring ..." I look at Curt, who has sat himself down in a chair in the corner.

_"Wannabe rock stars,"_ he quips.

We both burst out laughing.

"Very funny," Jerry whines. "Hilarious. It's shocking to me, Brian, how little of this you seem to take seriously."

I sigh in overly bored fashion and grab my girls' shoulders to step out of the boots.

"Jerry, I'm standing here in a _dress."_

Curt chuckles.

"Yes, and that is the uniform of Maxwell Demon, the millionaire space creature who does _not_ make tedious and tiresome political announcements."

"What is exceedingly tedious and tiresome," I say, "is this conversation. So let's call an end to it, shall we? _Please leave."_

"Absolutely," he responds. "As soon as you and Curt agree there are to be no more idiot, off the cuff _political_ statements." He says, spitting out the last phrase it like it's the most revolting thing in the world.

"Oh, _do_ fuck off," I snap. "Curt and I are grown men free to speak our minds. You aren't our _mother_."

Curt chuckles again.

"We are free," I continue, "to say what we want, _when_ we want, without needing to run it by _you_ beforehand, capiche?"

"And so we will sit back and watch your record sales plummet."

"Please," I say, as a button, stud and sequined sleeve weighing about five stone is carefully, painstakingly removed from my arm, "_do_ get your frilly panties out of the twist they are in about this, won't you, Jerry?"

Curt, in the corner in a cloud of smoke, grins at me in that unbearably sexy manner, reminding me just how much he is turned on by my one-upping Jerry, and then does something that almost makes me fall down dead.

As I watch, he leans slightly back and slowly raises a foot up onto the edge of the adjacent folding chair, turning out his knee slightly to the side, allowing me a clear, unobstructed view of his … oh my, _leather bound crotch_.

"Ahhh," I say, staring, nearly drooling. "Leather is _such_ a fine thing."

"Is it?" Jerry says dumbly. "I find it rather revisionist, myself."

"Um," I snap "can you explain to me _why_ are you still in my dressing room, giving me your opinion about things? Make yourself scarce, please, won't you?"

"A good manager guides his acts and steers them away from stupid fucking mistakes."

"Who says you're a good manager?" I say flatly, as the girls remove the last of my other sleeve, while Curt grins and torments me by upping the ante: tucking the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, gazing at me with those piercing, half lidded 'fuck me' eyes, lowering his hand ... and slowly brushing it along the zipper.

_"Oh shit,"_ I blurt, almost falling off the pedestal.

"What's wrong?" one of the girls stops and asks.

"Nothing. Nothing. Can you hurry up, please?"

* * *

><p>As the last of the upper half of my outfit is peeled off me I am caused to cough suddenly, as the bastard does it again, not only "accidentally" caressing his crotch, but adjusting the growing lump therein with his palm, mid way through, all as those pale blue, lust clouded eyes roam my torso.<p>

"Um," I say, looking quickly at my girls. "W-why don't you two call it a night? I'm sure I can get the rest."

They look at each other briefly, but remain in place, as this too, is Against The Rules.

"Brian," Jerry whines, "need I remind you, your outfits are painstakingly hand sewn from the highest quality imported materials. They costs several thousand _each_, which is _why_ we hire and _pay_ two dressers-"

Behind him Curt stands and takes a step toward me, then another, lips parted slightly, eyes boring into mine.

"-Um, you know what?" I blurt. "I-I don't care right now, frankly-"

"You don't ca-?!" Jerry snaps, but is interrupted by Curt, who steps between and in front of them all.

_"He doesn't fucking care,"_ he says pointedly, sidling up, placing a hand on each of my hips and slipping his thumbs down inside the waist band.

"But I promise to be gentle," he says, looking at them_, _"when I rip these off his body."


End file.
